The Gentle Sin Is This
by syntheticpoetry
Summary: It's Christmas Eve and Kurt receives a visit from Rory, his Christmas guardian angel, who shows him what happened the night Blaine cheated on him and some of the events leading up to it.


**Author's Note: I just want our boys back together already.**

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"Are you sure you're okay with me staying here, Kurt?" Blaine asked again as Kurt slid open the heavy door of his apartment. They'd just returned from ice-skating, windswept and pink in the face, and it was nearly one in the morning.

"For the hundredth time, yes," Kurt replied and hurried in, rushing over to a small heater against the wall that he and Rachel had split the cost of back in the middle of November. He twisted the dial, rubbed his hands together and bounced on the balls of his feet, waiting for the machine to warm up.

Blaine lingered by the doorway still, as though uncertain if Kurt's words were merely another mask to hide his discomfort. Blaine had caught a glimpse of it at the ice rink, the tiniest glimmer of _'what the hell are you doing here?'_ embedded into Kurt's acclaimed happiness. Or perhaps Blaine was simply being too hard on himself. He stepped inside and slid the door shut behind him before joining Kurt over by the heater. His hands were raw and stiff from spending hours outside in the cold waiting for Burt to direct Kurt over to the ice rink, but being in Kurt's apartment again left him feeling too ecstatic to complain.

"Where's your dad?" Blaine cupped his hands around his mouth and breathed into them before extending them out to the heater.

"On his way back, I texted him when we were done—he should be here soon," Kurt peeled his coat off and draped it over the couch before stepping into the kitchen. Blaine watched his lanky former lover out of the corner of his eye, but kept his head fixed forward in the direction of the heater. "Did you eat yet today?"

"Yes," Blaine answered quickly, unsure of why his first choice was to lie straight through his teeth. Without turning his head, Blaine could tell Kurt was raising an eyebrow at him.

"You haven't, have you?" Kurt filled a pot with water and placed it over the stove.

"No," Blaine replied with a sigh, massive defeat embedded within the solitary word. "But I'm fine, don't—don't go out of your way or—"

"Jesus, Blaine, it's fine. Really," Kurt flung open a cabinet and the rustling of plastic static filled the room. "Are you seriously that uncomfortable around me that you can't even let me know when you're hungry?"

"To be honest," Blaine shoved his hands into his pockets—still wrapped up tightly in his coat and scarf—and approached the kitchen, "I've felt so sick all day."

"Have you?" Kurt set two packages of Ramen noodles on the counter and closed the cabinet. "Nervous?"

Blaine nodded and zoned out on the bright orange packaging. "I, um, I wasn't—I didn't know how well you'd—I know you said you wanted to see each other on Christmas, but…"

"But what?" Kurt encouraged him to continue.

"I'm still trying to understand how you've forgiven me—"

"I haven't forgiven you, Blaine," Kurt ripped open the first package of noodles and dropped the block into a sea of boiling water before setting the small silver packet of flavouring on the counter and repeating the process with the second.

Behind them they heard the front door slide open followed by a knock and a, "Hello, anyone home?" as Burt walked in.

"Over here, dad!" Kurt cast a _'we'll talk about this later'_ glance in Blaine's direction before greeting his father with a smile and a hug. "Where'd you end up going?"

"Just walked around. This place is amazing at night—so many lights!" Burt laughed and rubbed Kurt's back briefly as they embraced. "How did ice-skating go?"

"It was fun," Kurt grinned. "Though, I had no idea Blaine was so good at it," he looked back at Blaine who had his back to the pair of them while he stirred the noodles that Kurt had temporarily abandoned.

"Huh?" Blaine quickly turned to face them at the mention of his name. "What did I do?"

"I was just telling my dad about your secret identity as an ice prince," Kurt smiled.

"Oh," Blaine was unsure of the authenticity of Kurt's relaxed mood, but slid into his own façade a beat after him. "Oh, right. I wasn't that good," he laughed and rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture he reserved for humility and nerves.

"Sounds like you kids had a good time," Burt looked as hopeful as he sounded.

"Yeah, it was really nice. I'm glad you're both here," Kurt hugged his father again before making his way back into the kitchen. "And I do mean that," he whispered, only for Blaine's ears. Blaine returned the comment with a humble smile before turning his attention back to the pot.

"Are you hungry, Mr. Hummel?"

"Nah, I had some pizza while I was out," Burt definitely noticed the disapproval painted boldly on Kurt's face. "Oh, don't give me that look—how often am I going to get to grab a slice of New York pizza?"

"_Dad_," Kurt scolded him in one of their many moments of role reversal.

"I'll eat whatever healthy food you kids cook up for Christmas dinner tomorrow night, okay? No complaints or anything," Burt winked as Blaine snuck a glance at the two of them while Kurt's attention was elsewhere. Blaine felt the tiniest glimmer of a smirk tug at his lips before he tore open the two packets of powder and emptied them into the pot, stirring in alternating whirlpools.

"I think I might just head to bed," Burt announced as silence started to comfortably settle between them all. "Where am I sleeping, Kurt? Couch?"

"Rachel said you could use her bed if you wanted to."

Burt crinkled his nose and spent a second in contemplation. "She ever bring that guy you were telling me about back here with her?"

Blaine actually had to stifle a laugh into his hand, earning him not only one but two signature "Hummel stares."

"I, uh," Kurt kept his eyes on Blaine as he tried to focus on his response. "I'm not sure, actually."

"I think I'll just take my chances on the couch then," Burt yawned and made his way to the bathroom.

"Are you sleeping in Rachel's bed then?" Kurt set two empty bowls beside the stove.

"I'm with your dad on this one. I'll probably just end up sleeping on the floor in the living room," Blaine carefully scooped noodles into the bowls, subtly adding more into the bowl closest to Kurt.

"The _floor_," Kurt squeaked. "The _hardwood floor_?"

"I'll be fine," Blaine laughed and poured some broth into Kurt's bowl, leaving only noodles in his own.

"If you say so," Kurt dug out some silverware for them to use from the drawer beneath the sink before plopping down into one of the vintage wicker chairs he had acquired at a swap meet the week prior to Blaine and Burt's visit. Blaine leaned back against the counter and twirled some noodles onto his fork, spending more time blowing on them than actually consuming them. Kurt didn't hesitate to gulp down all of his, piping hot steam and all.

"I'll see you in the morning then, yeah?" Kurt set his bowl in the sink and placed both hands on his lower back, arching his groin towards the sink and twisting his spine until he felt a series of cracks trickle down his vertebrae. Blaine shivered at the sound and merely nodded his response. "Leave the dishes, I'll take care of them tomorrow. Try to get some sleep, okay? I know you haven't been lately."

"How did you—"

"Come on, Blaine," Kurt lowered his gaze as though he were peering over an invisible pair of glasses. "The last time I saw you with bags under your eyes like this was during West Side Story, when you insisted on spending night and day running your lines and practicing your dance moves."

Blaine relinquished a nervous laugh and his hand found its way to the back of his neck again. Kurt wasn't wrong, he hadn't been sleeping.

"Okay, I'll probably turn in too in a few minutes."

"Night, Blaine," Kurt touched Blaine's bicep gently and immediately noticed a lack of muscle. It wasn't something that would be evident to the general audience of Blaine's life, but Kurt Hummel was definitely not a member of that crowd. He decided not to question Blaine about it though, out of both exhaustion and fear of what such a conversation would reveal about Blaine's habits lately.

And so, with a tight lipped smile, Kurt retired to his bedroom, leaving all of his unspoken questions in the kitchen with Blaine. He skipped his nighttime ritual, his skin could survive a night without moisturiser, and crawled into bed in his clothes. As soon as his head touched the pillow, he couldn't be bothered to sleep. In fact, his bed seemed to be having the complete opposite effect on his body. He turned over onto his stomach and quietly groaned into the collection of goose feathers held together by a sheet of cotton, then quickly decided the position was too uncomfortable and rolled onto his back again. His mind began to wander as his eyes adjusted to the dim settings in the room and he focused on the ceiling as recollections of the day trickled in and slowed the passage of time to snail-speed.

Overall, it had been a good Christmas Eve. As long as he excluded his father's news about cancer. And the tiny insecurities that kept coming to visit him whenever he let himself feel too happy around Blaine. He was afraid of letting himself slip into the comfort zone he'd found only with Blaine; he had to be more cautious now, keep himself guarded and try to remember that he needed to take more time to consider whom he should place his trust in and how much of that trust he should relinquish. While in his state of pensiveness, his bedroom window suddenly flung itself open and allowed a howling wind to wander madly about the room as he jolted violently and fell to the floor with a loud _thud!_ A fresh stream of creative profanities dashed from his lips and tangled itself up in the chilly December air.

"What the hell? I thought I locked this," he grumbled as he tried to rub down a bump quickly forming on the back of his head. A high pitched whistle rocketed straight through to his ears and he briskly picked himself up off of the floor and approached the open window, shivering and massaging his arms for warmth.

"Hello, Kurt."

"Taking after Cooper and working on your Irish brogue?" Kurt abandoned latching the lock on the window in favour of spinning around quickly on the balls of his feet to face who he assumed was Blaine standing behind him. "...Rory? What are you doing—how did you even get in?"

"I'm your Christmas guardian angel, and I'm here to help you understand, Kurt."

"Are you drunk?" Kurt stared dumbly.

"No," Rory flourished his response with a lighthearted giggle.

"High?"

"Not in the slightest," he held his hand out to Kurt and smiled brightly. "Come on, we have a lot to see before the morning."

"You're out of your mind, Rory," Kurt stared at him incredulously. "It's late. It's freezing. I'm not leaving—"

As soon as Rory slid his hand into Kurt's the bedroom walls melted away and were replaced with the West McKinley auditorium that both Rory and Kurt had become very familiar with. As Kurt was beginning to wonder just how hard he'd hit his head, Blaine came into view. He was sitting on the ledge that divided the stage and chairs in the audience, alternating between staring at an empty chair on the stage and at the ceiling. Kurt stayed silent and merely watched at first; to his left, he could feel Rory's expectant eyes. Blaine slid off of the ledge and jogged onto the stage, approaching the chair slowly—he seemed to be rehearsing for something. Blaine clapped his hands together and brought them up to his chest, turning towards the audience as he sang.

_"I don't know who I'm kidding, imagining you there..."_

Blaine started to look away but then glanced back at the same spot; his eyes welled up with a new brand of sorrow as he furrowed his brows in disbelief. He seemed so... lost, Kurt couldn't help but notice.

"What is this?" Kurt asked quietly.

Before Rory could explain, Blaine broke off during the middle of one of his lines. _"Get ahold of yourself, Anderson. He isn't there—there's __**no one**__ there."_ Blaine shook his head and reset his position, starting back at the ledge, before he began singing again. Kurt turned to Rory as Blaine jogged towards the stage once more.

"Rory, what the hell is this?" Kurt demanded.

"Just keep watching," Rory offered simply.

Kurt turned his attention back to Blaine, who was now staring again at the ledge he'd been sitting on as his vocal chords stretched themselves raw. What stood out the most to Kurt was the pure essence of disconnection painted in bursts of starlight in Blaine's galaxy eyes. This wasn't the same boy who practically leaked confidence from every pore when they first met at Dalton; this was someone that Kurt didn't recognise. Just before the auditorium melted away, Kurt and Blaine had locked eyes for one brief second and Kurt could _feel_ his own heart being physically halved. This was all wrong.

"Now where are we going?" Kurt reluctantly asked as the blurred outline of furniture came into focus. "Wait... This is Blaine's room."

Blaine laid on his stomach atop his bed, a position Kurt knew that he absolutely _hated_ because Blaine liked to be on his back, his arms were folded and his chin rested on the center of his forearms. He was staring at his cellphone, the screen illuminated and bathing him in pale, synthetic twilight. He looked exhausted. He would blink and keep his eyes closed longer each time. Kurt had no time frame to work with and could only guess when this particular scene took place. Blaine rolled onto his back finally and Kurt immediately remembered the outfit from one of their brief FaceTime conversations—he'd taken a moment to let himself be distracted by the little wisps of black curls peeking out from under the slit of Blaine's v-neck t-shirt before he needed to disconnect and get back to work.

"To satisfy your curiosity, this happened the night before what I just showed you," Rory interrupted Kurt's fond recollection.

Kurt wasn't listening though, his eyes stayed fixed on Blaine and how disappointed he looked. He'd never seen these sides of Blaine before, even Kurt was subjected to all of the feigned smiles and claims of, _'No, I'm fine.'_ Right now, Kurt could see that he, most certainly, wasn't fine—something had deeply upset him.

_"You said seven, Kurt,"_ Blaine draped his arm over his eyes and Kurt looked at the clock on the wall in the far right corner of the room—11:08. _"Come on, please. Where are you?" _

His stomach dropped to the floor; he remembered this night—Blaine had sent him a slew of messages throughout the day and Kurt promised they would talk later that night when he was finished with work. But he'd gotten held up and simply collapsed into bed when he finally made it home and didn't remember until the next day where he called Blaine from the office and had no choice but to hang up less than two minutes later.

_'I miss you. I miss kissing you, I miss hugging you, I miss... messing around with you.' _

Kurt closed his eyes as he remembered Blaine's desperate confessions during that very brief call—how had he had the strength to shove aside such a red flag at the time? He opened them again, with effort, to see that Blaine had changed positions again. He was laying on his side now, his clothes looking as disheveled as the rest of him, as he chewed on his lip and hovered a finger over his phone, which was still shining bright as ever on the bed. He watched Blaine hesitantly press his index finger down and then immediately tap the screen a few times, as though he was cancelling a call and making damn sure it had definitely not gone through. Kurt watched Blaine repeat this process three more times, Blaine growing more upset with himself each time, until he finally only pressed down once and then lifted the phone to his ear.

_"Pick up,"_ Blaine whispered, dropping his forehead down into his palm. _"Pick up—please."_

Something sinister and rotten churned in Kurt's stomach as he watched the scene unfurl. _"Kurt? Hey, I know you're probably busy, but could you call me back when you can? I love you."_ Inevitably, Blaine lowered the phone and tapped the "end call" button before dropping both the phone and his face onto the mattress. Kurt tried to recall how many missed calls and voicemails—that he hadn't been able to check and then promptly erased without ever listening to after Blaine had confessed to cheating—he'd received from Blaine over the last few months; he was almost ashamed to acknowledge that the number was at least in the double digits. But he hadn't done it on purpose, he'd been busy, he'd been living his life just as Blaine had told him to—so he missed a few calls, that wasn't grounds for Blaine to go ahead and cheat on him, now was it?

"Why are you showing me this? To make me feel guilty?" Kurt spoke a little louder than he actually intended, practically shouting at Rory as his thoughts sparked hostile invigoration within him.

"That's something you need to figure out on your own, Kurt. I'm only here to show you all of the puzzle pieces that you need."

Kurt wanted to crumple to the ground right then and there after the puzzle analogy.

Suddenly, they were back at McKinley; Blaine sat in the corner of the choir room with his legs propped up on a second chair as he stared intently at his phone. The image was beginning to engrave itself into Kurt's brain when a realization had collided with him—Blaine had been alone every time they'd seen him. In the auditorium, in his room with the lights off, here in the choir room—where was anyone else from Glee club? Where was _anyone_ at all?

_"Kurt, I know you're busy, but I really need to talk to you. I love you, please call me back when you get this,"_ Blaine disconnected and leaned his head back against the wall, closing his fingers tightly around the medium between himself and Kurt as though it was at fault for their lack of communication and he could simply strangle the life out of it it to put his frustrations to rest. He banged his head back against the wall, the dull thud echoed loudly in the vacant room and sent shockwaves down Kurt's spine, and looked to his phone again.

"Can he see us?" Kurt approached Blaine without waiting for an answer from Rory and peered at the small screen.

"No, he can't."

Kurt kneeled down and alternated his gaze between the text message Blaine kept revising and his ex-boyfriend's face. There were tears clinging loosely to those long eyelashes that used to unexpectedly shower Kurt in butterfly kisses. Kurt had obviously been this close to Blaine's face before, could compose a perfect portrait with his eyes closed and a box of crayons, having committed every small detail to memory, but this was foreign. The harsh crinkles outlining Blaine's frown, the bruised skin underneath his eyes indicating severe lack of sleep—this was new, and something Kurt wasn't entirely sure he was equipped to handle right now.

"I can't look at him like this anymore," Kurt's previous hostility had quickly been downgraded to defeat—cheater or not, Kurt could only take so much of those pouty lips and downtrodden puppy dog eyes.

"One last thing," Rory replied solemnly.

The walls dissolved once again and they were somewhere completely unfamiliar to Kurt. He didn't recognise anything about the room, not the colour of the walls or the furniture or the knick knacks lined up on the windowsill. Like the other two scenes Rory had shown Kurt, everything came into focus gradually. Blaine sat on the edge of a rumpled bed, trembling all over from his toes to the roots of his slightly unkempt—but still mostly gelled—hair as he pulled his shirt on. Kurt had only seen Blaine become physically ill a handful of times, and right now he looked like he was about to be. Blaine guided his hand through fuzzy curls before lowering his head onto his palms. Kurt felt his stomach lurch uneasily as it dawned on him—

"This is when he—after he..."

A thin, blonde haired boy appeared at the entryway of the bedroom, his bare chest exposed under an open button-up shirt. He placed a hand on the doorframe and leaned against it.

_"You okay?"_

_"No,"_ Blaine's eyes were unfocused, like he couldn't recognise himself or figure out how he'd even ended up in the situation he was currently in.

_"Is it because I don't look like my profile picture?" _The boy joked in oblivious good cheer. Kurt clenched his fists and dug crescent moons into his palms.

_"I'm sorry, I have to go," _Blaine got to his feet and shouldered past the mystery boy. Though Rory and Kurt never moved they followed Blaine out, the phantom floor working as a magic carpet to transport them wherever Blaine was leading. As soon as they were out of the house, Blaine rushed to the curb and emptied his guilt on the street. Kurt cringed and held a hand over his own mouth as Blaine continued dry heaving a few more times before sinking down to his knees and leaning his head forward against his car. Unbearable silence came next and Kurt wondered how much longer they were going to be subjected to watching when Blaine suddenly rammed his fist against the car door and let out an ugly, guttural sob.

"Stop," Kurt begged through silent tears with a shadow of a voice.

_"You idiot, you fucking idiot. What the fuck were you thinking?" _Blaine demanded of himself between rattling intakes of breath. _"You. Fucking. Idiot." _His fist connected with car door after each word and it wasn't long before his knuckles had been split wide open and blood spattered his jeans in entropic droplet patterns.

"Stop, stop, please stop!" Kurt wasn't sure who exactly he was pleading with or for what: Blaine, to listen, or Rory, to eradicate the entire horrid visualisation.

A second later they were back in Kurt's apartment; the window that he had forgotten to latch shut was cracked open enough to let vagrant snowflakes fall where they may upon the floor. Kurt barely paid any mind to it as he walked in small circles near his bed, rubbing the index and middle fingers of his right hand over his bottom lip. He wasn't sure what to think, what to feel—all he was certain of now was the pure and honest affliction he felt over all that he'd been shown.

"I didn't show you any of that to make you feel guilty," Rory stood by the window, whimsical snowflakes littering his hair. "To answer your earlier question."

"Then why did you?" Kurt whispered.

"I think you know why, Kurt." Rory strode the distance between them until Kurt had to stop pacing or else they'd have collided with each other. "I know you've been struggling. And I know that you still love him, which is _why_ you've been struggling."

"What would you do?" Kurt's lip trembled. "If you were me, if this happened to you—what would you do?"

"That isn't for me to say. This is _your_ decision to make, Kurt. You need to think about what you want and if you can bring yourself to forgive him or not," Rory gave him a weary smile.

"Why now?" Kurt returned the smile with bleary eyes.

"You asked for guidance. When the two of you were skating, do you remember? You looked at him and thought—"

"Please, someone tell me how to forgive him," Kurt finished for him.

"You two will be okay," Rory rested his hand on Kurt's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Merry Christmas, Kurt."

"Merry Christmas—"

Rory faded away and darkness enveloped everything; Kurt opened his eyes and discovered he was laying in bed, the window still breathing snowflakes around the room in gentle, wispy bursts. For the faintest millisecond he thought he might have dreamed the entire thing up, but the doubt hadn't deterred him from climbing out of bed and making his way into the living room. Burt was asleep on the couch, sprawled out and snoring quietly, and on the floor—curled up snugly—lay Blaine Anderson, taking up only about half of the space than the coffee table beside him did. Kurt watched him sleep, something he'd often do whenever Blaine was the first to fall drift off—a rarity—during the nights they were able to spend together and studied the differences between Blaine-then and Blaine-now. Then, he seemed so relaxed, so safe and carefree; now, his muscles were tense and he sported a deep frown that contained an intricate history of heartache and self-doubt.

Kurt knelt down and twirled one of Blaine's loose curls around his index finger; Blaine shifted his head towards Kurt's touch—in his sleep he'd never been able to resist whenever Kurt played with his hair without permission. Kurt smiled warmly and it spread, infectiously, to the rest of his body, erasing all the damage that the open window had caused his nerves. After a solitary heartbeat's length of time, he moved both hands to Blaine's left arm and shoulder, rousing him gently.

"Wha—huh?" Blaine mumbled, keeping his eyes closed as he unfurled his body and stretched almost wantonly while allowing little squeaking moans to escape.

"Come with me," Kurt whispered and effortlessly pulled Blaine to his feet—he seemed much lighter than Kurt remembered, something he stored away for a later discussion—and guided the torpid boy towards his bed.

"Kurt?" Blaine dragged his knuckles across his eyes in a futile attempt to expel some of the drowsiness. "What are—where—"

"Shh," Kurt breathed back as he tucked Blaine in beneath the comforter and finally closed and locked the window. "Just... don't ruin the moment," he crawled into bed, immediately soaking up the heat radiating off of Blaine as he edged closer to his very confused companion.

"I thought you said you haven't forgiven me," Blaine became more lucid as Kurt snuck his arm beneath the back of Blaine's neck and pulled the smaller boy's body against his chest.

"I haven't," Kurt reiterated, "But I'm trying to."

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**Please review if you liked what you read. Stay strong, Klainers. Our boys will find their way back to each other.**


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